Another Chance
by wretchedchild
Summary: Draco Malfoy is starting his life over, but will his rival forgive him? Postwar AU. Drarry.
1. Chapter 1

Another night, another Knut, as the saying went.

Draco Malfoy, third favourite bachelor of Which Witch magazine punched out of work and slung his satchel over his shoulder.

His broad hands, once silken from lack of labour were calloused, with the slightest tinge of green at his fingertips. He'd been chopping potions ingredients for the last two hours, and god if he didn't yearn for a nice, hot bath, a glass of firewhiskey, and his warm familiar bed.

After school had ended, instead of following his father to a job at the ministry, he'd decided to take some time away. Explore his options, find out who he really was, maybe discover his passion. But as of yet, nothing. Nada. Just days and days and weeks and months of neatly slicing, dicing and grinding various ingredients. It was monotonous work, but Draco forced himself to think of the upsides. It was important. Someone had to do it, why not him? He'd found pride in his work, and himself.

But still. The hours were long, and some of the ingredients they had him prepare were straight up vile. He was stubborn enough to push through.

Diagon Alley was packed. Children screaming as they picked out their familiars, shopkeepers hawking their wares, and one particularly loud couple 'making out' outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour . At first, the din had been near unbearable. But, like many things, Draco had got used to it...warmed to it, even. It was a far cry from the stillness of Malfoy Manor, but the noise, the bustle.

Diagon Alley was alive.

Diagon Alley was alive, and so was he.

He wound his way through the crowd, an expert at this point. He'd become a lot more skilled at blending in, even with his silver-blond hair being a goddamn beacon. In the year or two since he'd left Hogwarts, Draco really had changed a lot. In looks as well as temperament.

He held himself with a less impertinent air, though he was still confident. His shoulders had filled out some, and his face wasn't quite as narrow and pointed. He'd let his hair grow, and though it would have been curtains of ivory silk if he had it loose, he'd taken a page from his father's book to tie it back in a leather binding.

Draco was no longer a child. He was a man in the world, and he was proud of himself. When his father heard about the goings on in his life, they were far less negative. Less bratty. Instead, he found himself enthusing about a funny occurrence at the Apothecary, or a silly run-in he'd seen at Madam Malkin's. Life was just better. He hoped it would continue in that vein.

Sliding into a seat at the Leaky Cauldron bar, Draco cast his eyes about. The same old group, old witches and wizards sitting around with pints, reminiscing. Younger ones drinking away their sorrows, and a few just making their way through. He ordered a Firewhiskey and put down a few coins – now that he earned his own money, he was far less flashy with it. Indeed, he'd learned the value of a hard-earned Galleon.

The glass was slid his way, and he took a sip. It burned all the way down. Satisfying.

He kept looking about, and the glass was halfway to his lips again when he paused. God, that was someone he definitely hadn't expected to see.

As if of their own volition, his legs brought him to a stand, and propelled him forward to the small corner booth. His footfalls were silent.

He took a deep breath and smirked. God, memories.

 _"Potter."_


	2. Chapter 2

Harry froze.

He knew that voice, and knew it too well. He was thankful, at least, that Draco had said his name quietly – it was tough for 'Savior of Wizardkind, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Conquered The Dark Lord' to get a goddamn moment of peace. A little louder, and he'd have been absolutely swamped.  
Harry definitely looked worse for wear than Draco did. His lids were heavy, his undereyes shadowed from lack of solid sleep. No one could blame him for how he looked – he'd seen and experienced the worst of the war.  
Draco felt lost, and he'd only been a spy, playing a minor role in the war itself. He couldn't imagine how Harry was carrying on, the burden firmly on his shoulders.

"Malfoy," Harry returned, with a little nod. Their history was just that, history. With _You Know Who_ gone, and them being out of school, the pettiness had no place in their lives. It was a chance for a fresh start.

Draco knew better than to ask about the war. He was sure Harry had to be tired of rehashing the same conversation, over and over. Instead, he asked if the brunette could use a drink.  
Harry shook his head, but there was a fresh glass in front of him right quick, and Draco was sliding into the seat opposite. "You looked like you could use some company."

Harry shrugged.

They sat in silence for a bit. Barely looking at each other, nursing their drinks, before Harry cleared his throat. "How are you doing?"  
"Oh. Yeah, I'm good. Working at Slug and Jigger's at the moment. You know, the Apothecary?"

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Was expecting you'd be at the Ministry."  
"Maybe someday. But I can't go back there right now." The reason remained unspoken, but they both understood. "What about you? Auror training?"  
"Oh, god no. I mean...I've had enough of that for a lifetime. Just...setting things in order, you know? Taking some time."

Draco did know.

They didn't talk about the future, it felt too far away. And the past was too painful. But the silence that fell once again was a lot less awkward than the one before. It could even be described as companionable.  
Draco broke it, this time.  
"Got a bird at least?"  
Harry couldn't help but chuckle. He'd missed out on a lot of teenage boy talk over the past few years, and that was the last thing he was expecting to come out of Draco Malfoy's mouth.  
"Can't."  
"What do you mean you _can't_?"  
"You must know how it is. Not knowing if they want you, or You. Does that make sense?"

It did.

"Heard there's a right trade for Lookalikes in Knockturn. Isn't that fucked up?"  
"I've seen a few. Some of them look more like me than I do."  
Draco let out a very undignified snort. He knew the feeling. He'd seen some of the lookalikes, in fact. They were convincing, no doubt, but idealised. The bigger shock for him, was finding his own lookalikes around. Of course, they were far less plentiful than Harry's.

"You're not offended?"  
"It's weird. It's super weird, but...what can I do about it?"  
"Self-sacrificing as ever. But I can see your point. Plus...it makes people happy. We could all use some of that."

Harry nodded slowly. Draco was right, of course. So many people had fallen during the war, and the survivors had to hold on to happiness however they could. He couldn't blame anyone for that. "What about you? And a bird, I mean."

"Pansy and I had an agreement, but..." He trailed off. She'd fallen, too. "It was a family accord more than anything. An arranged sort of thing."

"Nothing since?"  
Draco shook his head. "I never really loved her. I'm still working out what that means."

When one's childhood is stolen, it can take some time to figure out who you are. It was another way in which they had an accord.

Draco glanced at the clock above the bar. Two hours had passed, between their banter and silences. He swore and tugged a notebook out of his satchel. He scribbled down a phone number, and an address in Knockturn. It was torn out of the book and pushed across the table easily.

Harry looked at the address questioningly. "...Rent's cheap, and it's close by. Just...you know. If you need to talk."  
Just like that, he was gone, the ball in Harry's court.

Harry turned the piece of paper over in his hands. Draco Malfoy of all people was offering support. It wasn't a shock, not really. They'd both been through a lot, and they'd ended up on the same side. Outside of what remained of the Weasleys, Neville, Luna, and Hermione, there really weren't a lot of people he could talk to who really, truly understood. The more he thought about it, the more the idea solidified in his mind. Draco had extended the olive branch, and he was going to grab it. He didn't have anything to lose.

Shoving the paper in his pocket, he slipped out the back of the Leaky Cauldron, and back to the Muggle world. He had a nice flat in Muggle London, cost and arm and a leg, but he could afford it. He had relative anonymity, and safety. That's all he really needed.

When he went to sleep that night, his last thought was of Draco. He'd turned down the offer of friendship once...but he wouldn't let it slip by again. He couldn't afford to.

Harry dropped by the Burrow the next morning. Molly immediately shoved him into a seat at the table, and loaded up his plate. At least he never went hungry.  
Molly adored his visits – the house was much more empty of late, all of her children having grown and moved out. Fred and George were there, though. Hermione and Ginny too. Still, a far cry from the house that was once packed to the rafters.  
Harry didn't mention Draco. But he needed to be surrounded by those he knew loved him unconditionally. He needed the support, to know that they at least were there.

His thoughts drifted, from time to time.

 _What support did Draco have, if any?_

What a sad thought.

His mind was made up. He'd visit that evening.


End file.
